Doctor Dom Series Sequence One (Triage | Observation | Diagnosis): A BDSM & Medical Play Series by Tara Crescent Page A
Authors: Tara Crescent
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parted open every single Wednesday and Friday at 6.30pm, irrespective of what else I had going on in my life. My friend Monica’s birthday? I had to miss it; it was on a Friday evening. I was only allowed to wear skirts, no matter how cold the weather, because my pussy always needed to be accessible to Nick.
There’s an old Tom Hanks movie; one he made in the early part of his career. About how a group of students become dangerously preoccupied with a Dungeons and Dragons game, and how it slowly took over their lives until they couldn’t tell what was real, and what wasn’t. That was me. I couldn’t tell what was reasonable for Nick to ask me; what was not. In the absence of any ability to distinguish, I let him do everything to me. I was in the throes of lust and longing and something that approached love, captivated by the sex; dangerously high on the adrenaline of surrendering control, of submitting to my dominant; I willingly let him take over my life; I didn’t fight for myself one little bit. My needs were immaterial to Nick. My hopes and dreams were not of consequence; he wasn’t interested in them. I was his to mould into whatever he desired.
Until that last day.
I’d been working a shitty retail job after graduation; sending out endless resumes to design firms to try and land a coveted internship; something that would allow me to work in the field of my choice. One day at eleven forty five on a Wednesday morning, I received a call from one of them, wanting to talk about my resume.
“Can you talk now?” the HR person on the other end of the line asked. If I’d said no, she would have rescheduled, but she would have talked in the meanwhile to many other young hopefuls who would do whatever it took to advance their careers.
I took a worried look at the time. I had fifteen minutes. The rules were clear; I had to call Nick at noon.
“Yes,” I said, making a swift decision. Surely Nick would understand why; this could be my big break.
I spoke to her, doing my best to sound put-together and focused and bright; the kind of person you’d want as an intern in your firm. We talked for forty-five minutes; at the end, she invited me in for an interview the next day. I was jubilant until I hung up.
And then, trepidation filled me. It was 12.30; I had not called Nick.
“I’m sorry,” I started, as soon as he picked up. “I had an interview.”
He didn’t listen; he wasn’t interested in the why. “I want you in my apartment,” he said, his voice icy. “Naked. Ready. Waiting for me. Now. You are going to get punished for this, Lisa.”
I got punished that day, but I’d taken punishments before. It wasn’t the pain of the punishment that hurt; it was the realization that he didn’t care at all about my interview the next day. To him, I was a puppet; I had no intrinsic worth on my own; I was there to be arranged into whatever position and shape Nick O’Malley wanted.
And the part that terrifies me to this day is that I had been a willing participant in my own destruction. I had wanted to please Nick; I had craved his approval and his warmth; I had cringed before his anger and disappointment. I would have done anything to keep Nick O’Malley happy, no matter what the cost to me.
I did something that day that took unbelievable strength. I let go of my need for him to control me; I let go of the addictive, nerve-shattering sex; I made myself forgot the meaning of love because I clearly didn’t have the ability to distinguish between it and dangerous control, and I walked out of there, and never saw him again.
***
I recognised the look in Patrick’s eyes today because I’d seen it before. I’d seen the same look in Nick’s eyes for eight months – a certain focused intensity and a calm control, before he began to steadily strip apart every little bit of who I was, every little spark of personality, to create a sweet, willing submissive instead.
When I finally summoned the courage to break
There’s an old Tom Hanks movie; one he made in the early part of his career. About how a group of students become dangerously preoccupied with a Dungeons and Dragons game, and how it slowly took over their lives until they couldn’t tell what was real, and what wasn’t. That was me. I couldn’t tell what was reasonable for Nick to ask me; what was not. In the absence of any ability to distinguish, I let him do everything to me. I was in the throes of lust and longing and something that approached love, captivated by the sex; dangerously high on the adrenaline of surrendering control, of submitting to my dominant; I willingly let him take over my life; I didn’t fight for myself one little bit. My needs were immaterial to Nick. My hopes and dreams were not of consequence; he wasn’t interested in them. I was his to mould into whatever he desired.
Until that last day.
I’d been working a shitty retail job after graduation; sending out endless resumes to design firms to try and land a coveted internship; something that would allow me to work in the field of my choice. One day at eleven forty five on a Wednesday morning, I received a call from one of them, wanting to talk about my resume.
“Can you talk now?” the HR person on the other end of the line asked. If I’d said no, she would have rescheduled, but she would have talked in the meanwhile to many other young hopefuls who would do whatever it took to advance their careers.
I took a worried look at the time. I had fifteen minutes. The rules were clear; I had to call Nick at noon.
“Yes,” I said, making a swift decision. Surely Nick would understand why; this could be my big break.
I spoke to her, doing my best to sound put-together and focused and bright; the kind of person you’d want as an intern in your firm. We talked for forty-five minutes; at the end, she invited me in for an interview the next day. I was jubilant until I hung up.
And then, trepidation filled me. It was 12.30; I had not called Nick.
“I’m sorry,” I started, as soon as he picked up. “I had an interview.”
He didn’t listen; he wasn’t interested in the why. “I want you in my apartment,” he said, his voice icy. “Naked. Ready. Waiting for me. Now. You are going to get punished for this, Lisa.”
I got punished that day, but I’d taken punishments before. It wasn’t the pain of the punishment that hurt; it was the realization that he didn’t care at all about my interview the next day. To him, I was a puppet; I had no intrinsic worth on my own; I was there to be arranged into whatever position and shape Nick O’Malley wanted.
And the part that terrifies me to this day is that I had been a willing participant in my own destruction. I had wanted to please Nick; I had craved his approval and his warmth; I had cringed before his anger and disappointment. I would have done anything to keep Nick O’Malley happy, no matter what the cost to me.
I did something that day that took unbelievable strength. I let go of my need for him to control me; I let go of the addictive, nerve-shattering sex; I made myself forgot the meaning of love because I clearly didn’t have the ability to distinguish between it and dangerous control, and I walked out of there, and never saw him again.
***
I recognised the look in Patrick’s eyes today because I’d seen it before. I’d seen the same look in Nick’s eyes for eight months – a certain focused intensity and a calm control, before he began to steadily strip apart every little bit of who I was, every little spark of personality, to create a sweet, willing submissive instead.
When I finally summoned the courage to break
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